The same energy of mind which urges to the noblest heights of
benevolence, and assists towards the sublimest attainments of genius,
may also, if not properly directed, hurry us on to the wildest
extravagances of passion, and betray into impetuosity and folly.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Continued from page 11.)
God of mercies! cried I, into what a frightful abyss have my passions
plunged me. Had I subdued jealousy, had I overcome my natural
impetuosity, my idleness and inclination for play, I should have enjoyed
a considerable fortune; should not have borne the inward and dreadful
reproach of effecting the death of a worthy young man, nor of being the
primary cause of the sacrifice which his unhappy mistress will make
to-morrow; I should have been the delight of a benefactor, an Uncle, who
at present justly thinks me ungrateful and incorrigible; and should not
cowardly, at five-and-twenty, have renounced the duty of serving my King
and country. Far from being an object of contempt and public censure,
I should have been universally beloved, and, in possession of the
gentlest, most charming, and most virtuous of women, should have had the
most faithful and amiable of friends, and moreover should have been a
father! Wretch, of what inestimable treasures had thou deprived thyself!
Now thou mayest wander, for ever, lonely and desolate over the peopled
earth! So saying, I cast my despairing eyes around, terrified as it were
at my own comfortless and solitary situation.
Buried in these reflections, my attention was rouzed by the sound of
hasty footsteps upon the stairs. My door suddenly opened, a man appeared
and ran towards me; I rose instinctively, advanced, and in an instant
found myself in the arms of Sinclair!
While he pressed me to his bosom I could not restrain my tears; his
flowed plentifully. A thousand contending emotions were struggling in my
heart; but excessive confusion and shame were most prevalent, and kept
me silent.
I was at the farther part of Poitou, my friend, said Sinclair, and knew
not till lately, how necessary the consolations of friendship were
become; besides, I wanted six months for my own affairs, that I might
afterward devote myself to you. I am just come from Fontainbleau, have
obtained leave of absence, and you may now dispose of me as you please.
Oh Sinclair! cried I, unworthy the title of your friend, I no longer
deserve, no more can enjoy the precious consolations which friendship so
pure thus generously offers: I am past help, past hope.
Not so, said he, again embracing me; I know thy heart, thy native
sensibility and noble mind: had I nothing but compassion to offer,
certain I could not comfort, I should have wept for and assisted thee in
secret; but thou wouldst not have seen me here. No; friendship inspires
and brings me hither, with a happy assurance I shall soften thy anguish.
Sinclair’s discourse not only awakened the most lively gratitude, but
raised me in my own esteem. In giving me back his friendship, he gave me
hopes of myself. I immediately opened my whole heart to him, and found a
satisfaction of which I had long been deprived, that of speaking without
disguise of all my faults, and all my sorrows. The melancholy tale was
often interrupted by my tears; and Sinclair, after hearing me with as
much attention as tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep
sigh.
Of what use, said he, are wit, sensibility of soul, or virtuous
dispositions, without those solid, those invariable principles which
education or experience alone can give! He who has never profited by the
lessons of others, can never grow wise but at his own expence, and is
only to be taught by his errors and misfortunes.
Sinclair then conjured me to leave Paris for a time, and travel; adding
that he would go with me, and pressed me to depart without delay for
Italy. I give myself up entirely to your guidance, said I; dispose of a
wretch who without your aid must sink beneath his load of misery.
Profiting accordingly by the temper in which he found me, he made me
give my word to set off in two days. The evening before my departure,
I wished once more to revisit the place where I had first beheld my
Julia. It was in the gardens of the Palais-Royal; but, ashamed of
appearing in public, I waited till it was dark. There was music there
that evening, and a great concourse of people; so hiding myself in the
most obscure part of the great alley, I sat down behind a large tree.
I had not sat long, before two men came and placed themselves on the
other tide of the tree. I instantly knew one of them, by the sound of
his voice, to be Dainval, a young coxcomb, without wit, breeding, or
principles; joining to ridiculous affectation of perpetual irony,
a pretension to think philosophically; laughing at every thing; deciding
with self-sufficiency; at once pedantic and superficial; speaking with
contempt of the best men and the most virtuous actions; and believing
himself profound by calumniating goodness.
Such was Dainval, a man whom I had believed my friend till the moment of
my ruin, and whose pernicious example and advice I had too often
followed. I was going to rise and remove, when the sound of my own name
awakened my curiosity, and I heard the following dialogue began by
Dainval:
“Oh yes, it is very certain he sets off to-morrow morning with Sinclair
for Italy.”
“How! is he reconciled to Sinclair?”
“The best friends on earth! Generosity on one side, repentance on the
other; mutual tenderness, tears, and tortures; prayers, pardons, and
pacifications. The scene was truly pathetic.”
“So there is not a word of truth in all the late town talk?”
“What, of their being rivals? Why should you think so?”
“Why, how is it possible that Sinclair should be so interested about a
man he had betrayed?”
“Ha! ha!----I do not pique myself much for finding reasons for other
men’s actions, though I do a little for the faculty of seeing things as
they are. Sinclair, still fond of Julia, would reconcile her to her
husband, in order to get her out of a convent again. The thing is
evident enough.”
“But wherefore then go to Italy?”
“To give the town time to forget the history of the picture and the
pocket book.”
“And yet there are many people who pretend the pocket-book was
Belinda’s.”
“A fable invented at leisure! The fact is, poor La Paliniere knew well
enough, previous to that discovery, how matters went, and had told what
he knew above a year before to whoever would listen.”
“Is he amiable, pray? What sort of a man is he?”
“Who? La Paliniere!--------A poor creature! talents excessively
confined; half stupid; no imagination; no resource; no character. At his
first coming into life he threw himself in my way, and I took him under
my tuition; but I soon saw it was labour in vain; could never make any
figure; a head ill turned; Gothic notions; trifling views; scarce common
sense; a Prodigal that gaped with confusion at the sight of a Creditor:
a Gamester, that prided himself on generosity and greatness of soul with
a dice-box in his hand; any man’s dupe; ruining himself without
enjoyment, and without eclat.”
“Have you seen him since his clash?”
“No; but I have burnt all our accounts; he’ll never hear of them more.”
“Did he owe you many play-debts?”
“Numberless. I have destroyed his notes; not that I brag of such things,
nor should I mention this to any body else, ’Tis a thing of course you
know with a man of spirit; though I would not have you speak of it.”
I could contain myself no longer at this last falsehood. Liar! cried I,
behold me ready to pay all I owe you; retire from this place, and I hope
to acquit myself.
“Faith, said Dainval, with a forced smile, I did not expect you just
now, I must confess. As to your cut-throat proposal, it is natural
enough for you; you have nothing to lose, but I must take another year
to complete my ruin: therefore, when you return from Italy, or
thereabouts, why we shall fight on equal terms.”
So saying, he ran off without waiting for a reply, and left me with too
much contempt for his cowardice to think of pursuit.
This then is the man, said I to myself, whom I once thought amiable, by
whose councils I have been often guided! What a depth of depravity! What
a vile and corrupted heart! Oh how hideous is vice when seen without a
veil! It never reduces but when concealed; and having ever a greater
proportion of impudence than of artifice, it soon or late will break the
brittle mask with which its true face is covered.
This last adventure furnished me with more than one subject for
reflection; it taught me how carefully those who prize their reputation,
ought to avoid making themselves the topic of public conversation, in
which the sarcasms of scandal are always most prevalent. The malicious
add and invent, and the foolish and the idle hear and repeat; truth is
obscured, and the deceived public condemn without appeal.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
* * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *